


Reckoner

by major_arcana



Category: Ant-Man (2015), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Rough Sex, S.H.I.E.L.D., WIP, erotic asphyxiation, if ur looking for a happy ending go elsewhere, light blood kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/major_arcana/pseuds/major_arcana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the hero of his own story, but not hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Un

**Author's Note:**

> Everything that I own starts to pile up  
> Like bones make the walls of a prison  
> -Brand New, "Bed"

Her heels clicked metallic down the corridor, faintly echoing through the empty floor. She shivered absently; sliding her key card and wincing as the scanner pricked a blood sample from her hand. A faint rust-coloured smudge remained on her bottom lip as she sucked at the pearl of blood at her ﬁngertip, and she pressed at the glowing blue button for the topmost ﬂoor.

 _Its late_.

Imogen was one of less than a handful who had access to Darren Cross' personal ofﬁce. The already acute security precautions had lately been intensified as pressures compounded from all fronts. She lost count of how many times he'd manically burst in her ofﬁce to tell her of his latest breakthrough, that he was _there_ , that he would ﬁnally show _him_. She'd also lost count of the many times he'd thrown a chair through the conference room, frustrated at the failure of the once auspicious development. There were the quiet nights where he'd lay somberly, his head in her lap as he muttered inaudibly about formulas and quantum mechanics and _him_. And there were the hard nights where he'd tie the knots a little _too_ tight, grab her thighs just a little _too_ hard, and push the limits just a little _too_ far.

 _Last night was a hard night_ , she thought, gingerly ghosting over the bruise under her coral pencil skirt. _He's close. I should be happy. But this feels more like watching him eagerly swim towards a whirlpool and I can't let myself drown with him._

She looked up at the blinking camera, knowing he was on the other end, and held his gaze just a second too long. Her eyes flitted towards the doors as the lift gave a soft ding and she entered in the last passcode. His ofﬁce was starkly different from the rest of Cross Technologies; warmer. The cool silver and blues of the ﬂoors below gave way to soft earth tones, deep chestnut ﬂoors and crimson rugs; an array of succulents assiduously cared for, and a ﬂoor to ceiling honeycomb case ﬁlled with various insects set in amber. This was her favourite above all. When the sun shone in at this time, each specimen seemed to emit its own golden light. Today her eye caught one slightly askew, tilted too far back, as if absently set down. She took it in her hands, turning it over and admiring the way the amber so perfectly preserved the creature, as if it could take ﬂight if she were to crack it open.

"Dolichovespula saxonica." His voice rang clear through the open suite. His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

 _He's been working. Really working_.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed and smirking. He had an energy about him that made the air feel electric; made his touch feel like static. 

"A wasp?" She replied, holding it up to the fading light. 

He nodded, looping a thumb through one of the straps of his suspenders.

"The ﬁrst of my collection." He made his way over to her, hands shoved in his pockets. "I found it when I was a child. My father took us to Scotland one summer. I remember holding it up against the sun, thinking.." He moved a stray lock of hair from her forehead, lingering for a moment, "how beautiful this is..how perfect."

He took the specimen into his hands. It seemed so much smaller at his charge, a small toy. She felt like the piece of amber, truthfully. Something beautiful for him, but small and at his control.  His frame shadowed her as he set it back in place, perfectly in order this time. 

_Part of me is starting to think he intended for me to find that fossil._

"Thank you for coming, Imogen."

She looked up at him, his eyes were gentle, edging on a giddiness being held back.

"Of course, Mr Cross."

"No no no.." He said, closing the space between them. "Darren." He gently placed a hand behind her neck, squeezing just so for an instant. "For now" he added. His thumb pushed up beneath her chin, grazing his forefinger on the faded trace of blood for a moment before taking her bottom lip between his, sucking on the metallic residue and wondering how she always seemed to taste of fresh citrus. She felt herself getting lost in him, the crisp linen of his shirt between her fingers, the scent of his aftershave, his firm torso pressed against her body.

She could see the sun beginning to set, the light fading downwards from the case next to them. His face gave way to the shadows growing in the room, and she felt his hand trailing across her thigh, across what he'd left her last night.

"Darren?"

A faint "Yes?" crossed his lips as he drew his hand over the small belt at her waist.

"Its just..." She wondered for a moment if perhaps this was the wrong time. "There may be a small issue. A potential issue, rather."

"Oh?" His hands froze, and he rose his eyes to meet hers.

"Pym seems..resolute. Resolved. He knows you're close. But he doesn't..."

"T-that's just Pym. As far as I can remember...and it took a while to get the perspective to see...he has dug his heels against the road to progress. He was my mentor--mentors are _supposed_ to guide. To see their hand in the growth of their protégé and foster advancement of the field." His voice grew louder and harder.

"Darren...we don't know if there's actually a problem--yet. Perhaps we should have someone _infiltrate_ ," she emphasized, pacing in front of him as he ran a hand over the back of his scalp, "or at the very lease watch him closely. The world is expecting something big from Cross Tech, from you. But only Pym has a faint notion of just how big." She bit absently at her pendent, a nervous habit. It dropped from her mouth as he suddenly grabbed her wrist, pulling her close once more.

"Darling, it will dominate. This will change the world." His chest swelled as his ego returned. "Stark Industries was the forefront of weapons, they changed how we engage in war. But the Iron Man suit, the super soldier--impractical on a scale. Why add another dimension of warfare when we can obliterate war itself?"

"You don't mean..."

"Let me show you."


	2. Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bind my dreams up in your tangled hair,  
> for I am sick at heat, my dear  
> -Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, "Come Into My Sleep"

It was nearly eleven and the facility was empty. An eerie silence set against the florescent lighting gave her a chill as she doubled her pace to keep up with Darren's long stride. She wondered if he had purposefully set this test room to be a maze to reach, forcing any prospective investors to meander through the countless labs and offices, showing off the diligent progress of over a dozen different projects as he charismatically lectured about his history with Pym Tech and his vision of the future. Of course, he needn't do so with her. Passing through the antechamber, they entered a dimly lit octagonal showroom of steel and glass, scantily furnished but for a small arrangement of black leather lounges around the circumference.  At its center was a glass case, seemingly empty. She approached it as he pulled up some commands on the projected interface. Suspended in the case was a tiny suit, barely the size of the yellow-jacket she held in her hands earlier that evening.

"This," He came up behind her, tapping on the glass from over her shoulder. "This is the future. And next week I'll have the investors I need to finally finish it. My life's work."

"Can I see?" She whispered, idly drawing circles on the case. She was dizzy as the heady woodsy scent of his cologne filled her senses, so lost in it that she jumped at his touch when his hand landed on her side. He unclasped the belt at her waist, pulling it out of the loops and wrapping it around his hand.

"Oh yes. When it's ready. When it's perfect." He stepped back, and she wavered at his absent ﬁgure. The air in the room felt heavy. She'd felt the tension grow in the small touches between them; his hand at the small of her back as he lead her through the door, her arm brushing against his side, getting close enough for him to catch the faint trace of lavender from her hair. This wasn't about the project. But in many ways, it was completely about it.

"Take off your skirt."

She shook out of her thoughts, hands ﬂitting to the zipper at the base of her spine, slowly pulling at it as she began to turn around.

"No. I'll tell you when to turn. That's _one_."

She let out a small ragged breath, bending at the waist to pull the skirt from her hips. It pooled at her ankles and she stepped out. She knew the slight wasn't about her, but she wouldn't tell him that.

"Now, your blouse."

Her hands worked quickly at the buttons, knowing his impatience. The soft fabric had barely hit the floor when he approached her, his voice at her ear. 

"Now. Look at me." She turned, looking up into his darkened eyes. His gaze fell all over her at once; standing in nothing but lingerie and heels, watching patterns of goosebumps appear and vanish in the brisk environment. His foreﬁnger traced down the strap of her bra, around the contour of her breast, down to the lining of her panties.

"You are so beautiful." Tonight he circled her like she was a statue at the Louvre. Though there were other nights he stalked her like a tiger toying with its prey. 

"Thank you."

He put a ﬁnger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his.

"Sir." She added in a small voice.

He smiled. It always weakened her when he smiled like that. She knew what pleasure this gave him. Having her. Money, power, inﬂuence grew to mean nothing to him. But _she_ belonged to him, _she_ was his possession, priceless and solely for him. And for her, he was magnetic, he was electric, it was a pull beyond her control to be with him. He was chaos, he was ﬁre; and she knew somewhere within her that her desire to be warmed by him would burn her one day. But for tonight she waited as he unhooked his suspenders and unzipped, taking a seat a few paces away. She ﬁddled with her hands behind her back, impatient.

"Are you restless, darling?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"I'm cold. And I miss your touch. Sir."

"Come here." He waved her forward, gesturing for her to kneel. She leaned back, her heels digging into her backside.

"Have you been waiting for this all day?"

She shook her head in agreement. 

"As have I. You're so perfect, you know that? I have half a mind not to punish you for earlier." He twirled a piece of her hair between his ﬁngers. "However, rules are rules."

She assented as he sat back, patting his lap for her to lean across. Her hair fell across her eyes, her senses were alight as she felt his large hand come up her thigh, pulling her panties down and off in a single move. He ran his hand over her exposed arse, rubbing it in small circles. He lifted it, then brought it down with a determined smack. A faint pink flush bloomed where his hand had landed. She resisted the urge to writhe under his touch, biting her lip as he rubbed the inﬂamed area of his strike. He repeated this 4 more times, stopping to caress her after every hit.

"Thank you, sir" she said, shaking the hair that clung to her face from her eyes. He nodded, gently running his hand down her spine and between her legs, which were quivering at his touch. She felt herself grow wet after each strike, and the sudden stimulation made her moan in response.

"Excellent." He loosened the tie at his neck as she climbed off his lap, resuming her place at his feet once more. It wasn't her turn. Not just yet. The sizeable bulge of his manhood strained against his black boxers. He opened his legs, holding her eye contact.

"Is this what you want?" His voice was even, steady.

She nodded, "yes, sir."

"Say it."

"I want you," she drug her nails up his thighs, pulling his boxers down, freeing his engorged member, "I want all of you," he laid back, eyes almost closed as her hand wrapped around the base of his erection, "I want your cock in my mouth, I want to feel you cum inside of me." She took him completely, her tongue running ﬂat against the underside of him, eliciting the deep, guttural moan that vibrated through every inch of him. His hand went to the back of her head, lovingly tracing circles through her hair, gently tugging at it each time she hit _that_ spot. She ran her free hand up his chest, rising and falling unevenly now. He brought her small hand up to his throat, motioning for her to squeeze. She felt the coarse tickle of his stubble coming in as she pushed up against the sides of his throat. His nails dug into her hair, she could feel his entire body tense up as the asphyxiation brought him to climax. He spilled his seed in her mouth, shuddering. This was her least favorite part she thought as she wiped the residue of her grimace and his cum from her lips. He pulled her up to his face, his mouth crashing into hers with impatient fervor. He shoved her atop the supple leather where he had been, his frame overtaking hers. 

"Hands."

She obliged, lifting her arms above her head, crossing her wrists. He retrieved her belt, snugly restraining her against the head of the lounge. She pulled at the bonds, testing its strength. 

"And now," He rand his thumb over her nipple, erect through the thin lace material of her bra. He took it into his mouth, bringing his hand down to cup her mound. She gasped, arching her back. He shushed her, "You will cum when I tell you to." He breathed in her ear, inserting a digit inside her. 

"Yes....sir." She moaned. He introduced another digit, pumping slowly as his thumb made concentric circles around her clit.

"Does anyone else make you feel like this?" He asked, trailing kisses down to her pelvis.

"No. Only you."

"And when you touch yourself at night?" He poised above her entrance, slowly removing his fingers from her, eliciting a faint whine from her at the loss.

"I think of you. And you make me fe-feel," She stammered as he ran his tongue slowly up her slit, hips bucking towards him. "But nothing can compare to what you do to me."

She struggled to keep herself at bay as his tongue worked savagely, swirling his tongue and sucking as her moans grew louder. She tried to muffle her sounds into her arm, but it did little to conceal.

"Not yet." His breathing was laboured. He wiped his mouth, putting himself at her cunt, teasing her.

"Please..."

He thrust inside her, groaning as her walls convulsed around his size, a guttural ' _fuck_ ' escaped his lips. He took her leg, lifting it over his shoulder, relentlessly pounding into her. She was biting her lips so hard she tasted metal, tears welling at the corner of her eyes. His breathing was ragged, his eyes practically black.

"Cum for me, darling. Fuck...."

 It was all she needed. She fell apart, like a wave crashing on the beach or a glass shattering on tile. She cried out his name, disregarding all titles and pretense as she struggled to catch her breath. 

"Perfect," He took her bloodied lip between his, "You are perfect."


	3. Trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me, how does it feel  
> When your heart grows cold?  
> -New Order, "Blue Monday"

_Buzz-buzz-buzz._  
_Buzz-buzz-buzz._

Imogen woke, blindly reaching out to silence her phone's incessant alarm. It was seven o'clock, but with her curtains drawn it might as well have been midnight. She stretched, kicking off the sheets as her bleary eyes began to focus on the bright screen in her hand.

1 new message from Darren 

She swiped to open it.

Good morning, darling. Check the door. X 

Yawning, she swung out of bed, opening the curtains to let the sunrise stream in as she approached the door. Opening it, she found a vase of orchids atop a crisp white box tied with a black ribbon reading simply "Fatale". A small note stuck out of the flowers. " _Wear this_."

 _Hmmm._ He'd done this before. Gifts. Clothes, jewelry, flowers, rare books, travel. She'd only ever quarrelled with offerings of money, to which he quickly conceded. It made him feel powerful to give her things, to know the pendant at her throat or the Louboutin's on her feet were from him. Like he was signing his name on her. It was no surprise to her when she opened the box to find a pair of matte black heels laid on top of pink tissue paper carefully enclosing a sleek dress of deep plum. It seemed like an eternity since Paris, but it must've stuck with him that she had an affinity for Yves Saint Laurent. He was so free then, the Darren she knew when they were together, when they were alone. She traced the golden YSL on the sole of the shoe, turning it over in her hand, wondering if his breakthrough might finally set him free from his own binds.

* * *

 

It was nearly eleven and she'd felt like she'd ran a marathon. She'd led a conference call on directing focus from research to testing, distributed revised ethics codes to the HR department, and participated in two tours of the research and lab wings. She was typing out an email to Hope, asking to meet for dinner to go over some finer points of PR, when her assistant bounded in, a steaming mug precariously sloshing in her hands.

"Martine?"

"Hi, yeah, I know. I thought you might like another. Its orange blossom. By the way--he's gonna be here in like 3-2-you know."

Martine was especially good at seeing him just as he emerged from the elevator, giving Imogen a good two minute lead before he walked in. She found surprises discomforting, and he was fond of and prone to unexpected visits. She thanked her, taking a sip as Martine hurried back to her desk. Not a moment later, she heard him greet her assistant as he opened the door to her office. She quickly finished jotting down the details of her meeting with Hope on her calendar, looking up at him as she absently bit at the end of her pen. He always managed to look impeccable and effortless and present. Every detail was purposeful and yet was so authentically him.

"May I?"

His gesture asked if he might close the door behind him. A courteous question that he needn't ask, she thought. He owned every square inch of this building; this was merely a formality. It read on his face that this was true.

"Only if I'm in trouble." She answered in a low voice.

His grey eyes took on the colour of the sky before a storm. Teasing him so openly was brazen. She could see it ignite something in him already.

"We'll see."

The door closed softly behind him, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment. Silence hung over the room for but a second, yet it was deafening to her. She cleared her throat, taking another sip of tea.

"Is there..something I can do for you?"

"Stand up."

She felt the colour drain from her face. _Fuck. There's no time._ Gently placing both hands on the desk, she slowly pushed back her chair, standing. He motioned for her to come around. Barefoot, heels having been kicked off beneath the desk, she walked around. He said nothing, noting her distinct lack of footwear. He only took off his jacket, laying it on the chair by the door before rolling up his sleeves as he approached her.

"Da-"

He held up his forefinger, cutting her off. She fidgeted nervously, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Without the extra few inches, he towered over her even more than usual. She felt his shadow over her though she didn't dare to look up at him. He brought up a hand, pushing her chin up to look at him. His face was a mix of satisfaction, annoyance, and devilry. He looked like a predator about to take great pleasure in playing with its prey.

"I see you received my gift. Or, a part of it at least."

"They're all very lovely--"

This time he placed his whole hand over her mouth, bringing his face close to her ear.

"Were you displeased by them?"

She shook her head no, his hand still over her mouth.

"Were they somehow ill fitting?"

Again, she shook her head no.

"So, I wonder, why is it that I don't see them on you?"

She tried to answer, but her words came out muffled against his palm. He glanced over at her calendar, reading the circled note.

"Cancel your plans. As it stands, you are in trouble. You'll be picked up at 8."

He dropped his hand, striding over to retrieve his jacket. She stood, unmoving. His hand on the door, he turned his head.

"Aubergine looks lovely on you."

She stood for a moment longer, pressing her legs together, anxious to relieve the pressure.


	4. Quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take any moment, any time  
> A lover on the left  
> A sinner on the right  
> -Panic! At The Disco, "Casual Affair"

Part 1 of 2

**1 year earlier**

 

Darren Cross sat at the head of the conference room table, a spread of resumes before him. His assistant, William, paced around him, muttering pros and cons of the various candidates, but to him it sounded like television static. He stared ahead, unfocused, hands forming a steeple at his mouth.

"Darren? Darren?"

Hope was leaning across the table towards him, waving her hand in front of his line of sight.

"Yes, Ms. Van Dyne?" He drug the words out slowly.

"I asked what you thought of Saunders. He's been here 7 years, comparable credentials, very stable..." She trailed off, noting his look of disinterest.

He gave an indifferent hmmm, shufﬂing the glossy papers around him. His hand froze over one off to the side. _Imogen Czerny._ Twenty four. Interned through college, immediately recruited after graduating with honours.

"What do we know of her?" He asked, holding up her letterhead.

Hope Van Dyne quickly tapped on her tablet, turning it to reveal the personal record on ﬁle.

"Not much that you don't see before you. Moved up rather quickly here, great ambition, high IQ, received some humanitarian award a few years ago....not much on her personal life, but I can send Johnson to do some investigating if you'd li-"

"Not necessary, thank you. Set up a meeting with her. 6 o'clock."

"Darren, I really--"

"That is all, Ms. Van Dyne. Thank you."

* * *

 

Imogen hurried down the corridor, clutching the crystal pendant bouncing on her chest as she hastened her pace towards the elevator. Her heels echoed loudly off the tiled floor, and seemed to consume the entire level with her cacophony. She wasn't running late really. Just late for her. She was always a little early for everything, yet always panicked about being late. _I haven't worked this hard for so long to blow my chance over something like punctuality_ , she thought. She'd been with the company for over 4 years but had yet to actually meet its leader and CEO in person. Even at conferences and large meetings where he'd give an address or presentation, she'd always just missed her opportunity. And now she was about to be face to face with him to discuss why she should beat out over a score of individuals twice her age for a position that would put her just under himself, working directly with him almost daily. She pictured the stern, focused expression he usually wore, the sharp suits and shaved head. One didn't have to ask to know he was one of the most powerful men in his ﬁeld. He was charismatic, a genius in his field, and astute; known for dismissing someone for a single error and persuading the staunchest of investors into millions of dollars of shares. Her heart doubled in pace as she reached the end of the hallway. She pressed the elevator button half a dozen times muttering "come on, come onnnnn"

The doors had barely opened and she impatiently pushed herself through the widening gap, ﬁngers on the button for the top ﬂoor while mashing 'Door Close' repeatedly. They'd begun to shut when a large hand came between, gently but ﬁrmly pushing until the sensor reversed their movement. Time seemed to stang still as she looked up straight into the steel grey eyes of Darren Cross.

"I'm sorry, were we racing?" He smiled with perfect rows of perfect white teeth.

"Oh fu-goodness. I'm so sorry, Mr Cross--sir. I didn't intend...."

"It's quite alright. Your eager punctuality is noted, and appreciated. I detest tardiness." He cut her off, putting his hand to his chest apologetically. 

She gave a relieved smile. _Wow, he's handsome. And smells wonderful. Oh God, I can't be thinking this._ She turned to him, trying to appear bold and not at all as nervous as she truly was.

"If I may ask, pre-interview and off the record, why am I...? I'm just quite young compared to everyone else. I'm pretty sure Saunders has a kid a year older than myself..."

He smirked, "You know, I was pretty green myself when I started. Don't sell yourself short. You've accomplished quite a bit in your time here, and as a fellow valedictorian, I see a good deal of similarities between us, to be honest. I hope that doesn't come off too self involved."

"Incredibly ﬂattering, actually. It's not every day someone I greatly admire--"

"Greatly admire, hm?" The elevator dinged, opening the doors. He held out an arm over the opening, gesturing her through. "If you're trying to cajole your way--"

"Oh, oh no that's not what I--"

"Then it's working." He grinned, putting a hand on her lower back, leading her through the open ﬂoor of the top level. "There's no need to be nervous. This is really more of a formality than anything. I just want to get to know you a bit before I make my ﬁnal decision."

It was hard not to be anxious moments from what could be a life changing promotion, not to mention the heat pooling in her stomach after he touched her. She smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. _Keep it together, Im._ He seated her before a large mahogany desk empty but for a small keypad and a strange golden block of amber, at the center of which a single praying mantis was suspended. He took his seat in the exquisite leather chair across from her, which clearly cost more than her rent. He ﬁred off questions with precision, everything from her ten year plan to her humanitarian award to her contribution to the company, even a few personal inquires where she spoke of working two jobs through high school, raising her little brother basically by herself, and earning a full ride to MIT. She settled back, feeling more comfortable and conﬁdent in her answers as the minutes passed. She felt herself feeling more than before that she really was the ideal choice for the position.

"I believe that there are times that new, fresh eyes can bring a lot to a ﬁeld--a company such as this. With the history of PymTech especially. So many abandoned projects that need only to have new minds on them..."

He sat forward, "My feelings exactly, Ms. Czerny."

"Please, call me Imogen, sir."

"Very well." He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Well, this has been quite helpful, Imogen. I have to talk it over with the other shareholders but I've made up my mind." He leaned over to shake her hand, enclosing hers with both of his.

"May I walk you out?"

"Yes, of course, thank you, sir."

As they entered the elevator, he cleared his throat, turning to her.

"May I ask you something quite personal?"

"I'm an open book."

"You haven't a boyfriend, girlfriend? Have you?"

Her heart stopped. She watched the button for the 49th ﬂoor glow and fade, then the 48th. She tore her eyes from the pushbuttons over to him, his expression unreadable.

"As it turns out, I don't. I've been accused of dating my job."

He reached over, pressing the emergency stop. The elevator quickly halted, the lights switching to red, and he was suddenly inches from her.

"Just so you know, I chose you for the position for entirely professional reasons. If you want to decline the position or my forthwith proposal, I completely understand. However, this is completely a personal matter, is that alright with you?"

She pushed herself to shake out of her frozen state.

"Yes." Her voice came out smaller than she expected.

"Very good." He took a step forward, and her back hit the side of the elevator wall. His chest soon pressed solidly against her, his face mere inches from hers.

"I ﬁnd you alluring, Imogen. Impressive, even. And I'm not so easily impressed. I want to build a relationship with you, both physical--" he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, "and hopefully personal one. I have very speciﬁc interests, you see. I prefer to exert control over all aspects of my life. If you chose, you would be part of that. We can start slow, see what you're comfortable with and go from there. Take the night to think about it."

He hit a button to her side and the elevator sprang to life, continuing its descent.

Flushed, she cleared her throat, "have you done this before?"

"Many times. Doesn't always work out, but I have a feeling we'd work together well. I've never approached any individuals from my work before, as it were."

"And how would this...work?"

"Is that a yes?" She looked at him critically, biting her lip. _I can't say my immediate thought wasn't a resounding yes, but is this really what I want? Is this good? How can I feel conﬁdent in my position with the conﬂict of something personal? Am I scared of the danger or wishing to walk straight into it?_

"I'll sleep on it."

"Good. You have my number. I'll be in touch."

She fumbled with her keys while the lift settled on the bottom ﬂoor. They fell from her hands, skittering to his feet. They both reached down for them, hands colliding. She immediately retracted hers at his touch, as if burned by a white hot poker. He grabbed her wrist with a gentle but ﬁrm grasp, overturning her palm to hand over her keys. She took a sharp intake of air, looking up at his darkened eyes, a mixed expression of desire and power. The elevator doors closed again, waiting to be told where to go. In a quick motion, he pulled her toward him, his mouth crashing into hers. His kiss was chaste, yet demanding; speaking of restraint and promise. A small moan escaped her lips. He broke away, adjusting his tie. Pressing the door open button, he wished her a good night.

 _Fuck_ , she thought, walking to her car. _I'm so in_.

* * *

 

She paced around her apartment for a solid hour, pouring herself a glass of wine. Then another. Give it time. Let him wait. By her third, she was cleaning every square inch of her bathroom, arguing with herself on whether it was more stupid to pass this up or engage in whatever this could be. She thought about the press of his lips against hers, the grip of his hands on her wrist, how those hands would feel elsewhere on her body. She thought of his jawline, his broad chest, and the timbre of his voice-how that voice sounded hushed in her ear, commanding in his ofﬁce, how it would sound as he told her what he wanted her to do, or what he wanted to do with her.

She pulled out her mobile and typed and retyped and erased her message half a dozen times.

_Ugh, just do it Imogen._

 

 

> New Message
> 
> So, by agreeing to this, what exactly happens now?

The longest minute of Imogen's life passed.

 

 

> New Message from Darren Cross
> 
> I'm pleased. Dinner tomorrow, 8 o'clock. I'll arrange your car. We'll go over some ﬁner details and go from there.

She paused, smirking as she wrote back

 

 

> What should I wear? Casual? Formal? Latex?

Grey dots appeared and vanished while he typed.

 

 

> New Message from Darren Cross
> 
> Haha no, not necessary. I'll send you attire in the post tomorrow with instructions.

_Sending me clothes? Is that part of it?_ She shrugged to herself.

 

 

> Alright. See you then.

She took a deep drink of her wine. _Dinner & casual bondage? I guess I'm shaving my legs then._

 

 

> New Message from Darren Cross
> 
> Good night, Imogen.

 

 _So that's it. This is happening._ She poured herself a 4th glass.


	5. Cinq

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll climb on top and I'll never stop  
> Till I make you forget who you are  
> \--Blaqk Audio, "Between Breaths"

Part 2 of 2

**Cont'd**

Imogen was on her third cup of tea when the package, or rather, packages arrived at her doorstep the following day. She cautiously picked up the impressive looking parcels, turning them over in her arms. The first contained a delicate pair of white gold drop earrings. _What a way to start_ , she thought, running her finger lightly over the fine ornament, holding them against the light. Setting them aside, she began unwrapping the next largest box, revealing a pair of inky black pumps with the distinctive red sole announcing themselves as Louboutins. These were no ordinary heels. These were shoes of power. Ones you walked in, head high, thinking "Murder". These are exclusively _fuck me_ pumps. She slid her foot into each one, thankful they miraculously fit. _How he knew my size...don't know, don't care._ She walked from one end of the apartment to the other, not a grand distance by any means, but enough to get electricity sparking through her veins. The last box she tore open, the silken ribbon enveloped around it cascading unceremoniously to the floor. A crisp parchment coloured envelope laid atop layers of white tissue paper. She set it aside, slowly pulling apart the gauzy wrappings. Inside was a gorgeous wrap dress made of damask, in the deepest shade of black she'd ever seen. And it was vintage Chanel. _A man with taste,_ she thought, pressing the fabric to her chest. . She thought of him in one of his impeccable suits surrounded by a dimly lit cafe. The way his face could light up, eyes crinkling and lips curling into an infectious smile. How, in no moment at all, everything darkened like thunderclouds rolling in on a summer afternoon. Eyes hooded and black, his mouth set to a line. She picked up the note with curiosity, pulling it from its simple sleeve bearing only "Imogen" in careful script.

> I guessed your sizes after our encounter. This is what you will wear. Hair up. No perfume.  
>  D.Cross

She turned it over. Blank. _Well. To the point._ She checked her phone. _4pm. And so the anticipation begins._

* * *

 

He arrived at her apartment looking as if he stepped out of a spread from an inch thick fashion magazine, one of the large glossy publications whose September issue outweighed a bible. His suit was perfectly fitted; made of a dark, subdued plaid of charcoal, navy, and onyx overtop a black on black button down and tie. It was a dream. A perfect gentleman as he kissed her cheek at the door, commenting that she was utter perfection as he starting up his Tesla--a loud shade of cobalt that announced its importance to other drivers, requesting with each engine rev that they kindly change lanes. Was her heart beating faster or was time moving quickly? His hand requested hers, helping her from the passenger side & was at the small of her back as she slid onto the plush seat secluded from the other patrons, their conversations a low hum buzzing in the background. Bourbon and sauvignon were ushered to the table along with small plates of organic raw amuse-bouche. The wine was heavy on her tongue, which was loosening with each sip as she settled into the evening.

"MIT, as I'm sure you remember, is an experience," She blossomed, engrossing him in the story of her involvement with the Space Invaders prank that set her graduating class above all others.

His laugh was full and warm and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to hear it again.

"So," She leaned towards him, placing a hand on his wrist, "I've divulged a great deal about myself, yet all I know of you is what Forbes publicizes each year."

"You've read up on me, hmm?" He teased.

"You're a hard man to miss. Yet a mystery still. What's under the Armani? What are your leisurely pursuits, Mr. Cross?"

He encroached her space, daring her to back down. She held her glass between them as a guard, poising herself as she cleared her throat. "My free time, I'm afraid, is scarce. I have to carve it out for myself. For that, my interests are very...singular."

"Oh." She blushed. It had almost slipped her mind. "So, if you could illuminate me..."

"It starts with you giving yourself to me, entirely." He poured the remaining vintage, offering it to her. "Its about control, power. Its about trust as well."

"So I submit myself to you and..." She imitated a whiplash.

"If you so desire," He smirked. "But I might suggest we ease into it."

She tapped the rim thoughtfully against her lip. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, why don't we play a little game?" He swirled his bourbon languidly, tapping his finger against the crystal.

"What sort of game?"

"Its simple. You sit as still as you can, don't make a sound, while I--" He ran his hand up her thigh, which jerked into the table at his touch, glasses clattering cautiously at the disturbance. His hand ceased as his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're alright. Do you want to stop?"

She shook her head no, "No, you just...startled me. I don't know why I'm more nervous now than at your office."

"Let me be clear then," His voice was low and even, "I would never do anything to hurt you. Whatever boundaries we test, know that I would never put you in danger and if you ever want anything to stop, you need only say 'Denmark', alright?"

She nodded.

"Do you trust me?"

She paused before nodding again. Trust had never come easy. But this felt different. His hand took its place at her knee again, uncrossing her legs.

"So, you stay as still and quiet as you can," His hand disappeared under her dress, slowly inching its way up. "While I make you cum as hard as you can."

Her breath hitched, catching in her throat. His fingertips drew circles, closing in on where her legs met. _Gods help me, I'm already wet._ She felt his fingers hit the thin lace at her groin and freeze. He removed his hand, placing it on her inner thigh, applying slight but unyielding pressure. His whisper came to her ear edged like a sword.

"Do you remember what your instructions said, Imogen?"

She closed her eyes, nodding.

"Look at me when you answer."

She looked over at him. His entire demeanour had changed. He loomed over her, dark and immoveable. The rest of the room faded into the distance.

"Yes, sir."

His hand gave a quick, tight squeeze on her thigh.

"When I give you instructions, I expect them to be followed exactly."

"Yes, sir. I'm--"

He held up his hand, her apology dying in her throat.

"You will remove them. Now."

"Yes, sir. Here?" She asked meekly.

"Yes.  And how forgiving I'll be depends on your behaviour for the rest of the evening." He held out his hand, waiting.

She looked around the room. The other diners seemed oblivious, carrying on with their meals. She shuffled in the seat, pulling the panties down and off her legs, trying not to get them hooked on her heel. Shifting to get comfortable, the wetness between her legs now even more apparent to her, she placed the garment in his hands, a slight flush at her cheeks. He tucked the undergarment in the pocket of his trousers as casually as if they were a handkerchief.

"Now," This time he opened her legs with more aggression, pulling her tightly against him. His hand was at her immediately, and he hissed at the touch of her soaked core. "Has disobeying me gotten you off so? Do you enjoy breaking the rules?"

She shook her head, not breathing. "No, sir." She managed.

"Good. Because you'll find much more pleasure in doing exactly as I say." He swirled his forefinger around her swollen clit. "Do you want to be good, Imogen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

He inserted a digit. Her knuckles turned white, gripping the table. He hastily introduced a second and began pumping in and out of her at a moderate pace, thumb making circles around her clit. She bit down on her lip, trying to keep her composure. Then he began stroking inside of her, just _there_ , and a moan grew in her throat, trying to escape. She bit down harder, tasting blood. Her hips pushed into his hand, aching for release.

"Do you want to cum, darling?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

"Say it. Beg for it."

"Please, sir. Please make me cum. I'll be good. I'll do whatever you say."

"You supplicate so sweetly. I look forward to hearing it while you're over my lap later on."

He pushed into her further, unrelentingly driving into her. She felt her climax grow, felt herself contract around him harder and harder. He wedged his elbow between her legs, angling himself deeper inside her. She came, breathing heavy and uneven. He carefully removed himself from her, wiping his hands with the napkin and discarding it on the table.

"You did well." He gave her a chaste kiss. "Very well."

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, face still flushed.

"Will it always be like that?"

"Sometimes. There are games. Scenes. Punishments and rewards."

"What kind of punishment?"

"Depends. How curious are you?"

"Very."

"Then lets go to my place."

 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not renowned for my patience  
> I'm not renowned for my restraint  
> \--Depeche Mode, "The Sinner in Me"

Thunder rolled and grumbled outside Darren Cross' residence, rain pelting the glass and drumming against the roof. A prodigious Georgian house, painstakingly renovated and updated to encompass technical innovation and modern aesthetic. Everything was automated and could be controlled from his fingertips; lighting, temperature, alarms, locks. And everything was monitored. Imogen knew even then, as she paced in his study, he was on the other side of a screen somewhere, waiting. Or, rather, _delaying_. She was waiting. _Its part of the game. Part of the punishment._

She checked her phone. No new messages. And it was nearly nine. She sighed, adjusting the scarf at her throat. A knock came at the door, startling her. It was followed by his butler entering with an envelope in his hand.

"Ms. Czerny." He said, offering it to her.

"Thanks, Mark. How does he seem?"

He paused, eyes scanning the room before muttering softly, "Preoccupied. Good evening."

He exited as she broke the seal of the envelope, unfolding the note.

 

 

 

> My bedroom. Heels only.

 

As many times as she'd stayed there, she never quite got used to traversing through his home. Especially on her own. On stormy nights like this it felt a bit like The Shining. The hallways were eerily silent but for the sounds of rain outside and the soft echo of her heels against the hardwood floors. She closed the door after herself upon entering his personal bedchamber, stepping quietly through the room. It was immense, taking up at least half of the third level, and for good reason. One side contained a large canopy bed faced towards the balcony overlooking the gardens outside. It was simple, refined, and calming. She'd woken there many times, sheets wrapped around her as she walked out into the cool morning air. The other side was much more-- _intense_. Handcuffs, ropes, whips, and other accessories all hung perfectly, decorating the far wall. A large black bondage bed waited before a Saint Andrews cross, with a suspension frame coming between the two. Several tools lined up atop the bed, waiting to be used.

She began to undress, neatly folding her clothes and setting them on a cherry wood table on the nice side of the room. She shivered absently, unclasping her necklace and discarding it on the pile. She walked to the exact center of the chamber and waited, hands drumming against her legs. It was but a few short moments before lightening struck outside, illuminating the dimly lit room. Her face turned away from the window towards the door, which was opened to Darren's figure as he entered the space. She cast her eyes down at her feet, standing there naked but for her heels, and vulnerable. Lightning struck again, projecting his shadow upon her for an instant. He walked right past her, emitting soft sounds of undress. Silk against linen as he removed his tie, the inaudible pop of buttons coming undone, the light tap of empty oxfords hitting the floor.

His voice rang from behind her, calling her name.

"Yes, sir?"

"Come here."

She turned. He stood beside the dark bedframe, waiting barefoot and bare-chested, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. She approached him, biting her lip.

"Look at me."

She turned her face up towards his, making eye contact.

"Give me your wrists."

She obliged. He shackled them with a pair of dark leather cuffs and lead her over to the suspension frame, locking her hands high above her head. Moonlight poured in through the far window, just covering her exposed body in faint white light. It made the shadows in the room seem more ominous as they climbed up the high walls. He walked over to the bed, picking up a long object, indistinguishable in the darkness.

"Do you know why I'm doing this, Imogen?" He walked into her line of sight, turning over a riding crop in his hands.

"Yes, sir."

He lightly drug the leather keeper down her chest and around her body, causing her to shiver.

"And why is that?"

His eyes met hers as he lifted her chin with the end of the crop.

"Because I broke the rules and must be punished."

"Indeed." He spun her to face the other way. She nearly lost her balance were it not for his hand catching her by the elbow. "Careful," He warned.

Her heart began to beat fast in anticipation.

"Now, what do you think would suffice? Ten?"

"Whatever you think is best, sir." Her voice came out, quivering.

"Count it." He commanded as she nodded.

The first hit always hurt most, even if it wasn't the hardest to come. It was the surprise. The unexpected sting of leather against the tender flesh of her back. She jerked against the strike.

"One."

Then came another, slightly harder. The chains above her clinked softly.

"Two."

Then another, and another, and another.

"Three. Four. Five."

Stings echoed off her shoulder blades and backside. Strands of hair fell into her face as the pins loosened in her hair. She bit her cheek as she counted off number six.

"Am I striking too hard?"

She shuddered against the next hit.

"Seven. No, sir."

The crop whipped her upper thigh, causing her to cry out, " _Eight_!" as she pulled against the restraints above her.

"Are you going to follow the rules?"

The penultimate strike hit her lower back.

"Nine. Yes, sir."

"Are you going to be good?"

The leather tip ghosted down her back, sending a shiver in its wake. She shook faintly in anticipation.

"Yes, sir."

She heard him tap the crop in his hands, preparing for the final touch.

"Good."

The crop slapped against the center of her back, distinctly without the same ferocity as the ones preceding it. She exhaled the breath she was unaware she had been holding.

"Ten."

When she opened her eyes, he was before her, reaching up to unhook the cuffs from the frame.

"You did well." He said, unlocking and freeing her hands.

"Thank you, sir." She rubbed her wrists as the blood flowed back into her arms, sending a tingling sensation to match the one at her back. She remained glued to the spot, rolling her ankle slightly as she waited for his next instruction, turning her face up trying to fight the tears that had began to well up in her eyes. He sat at the foot of the black bedframe and patted lightly on his thigh.

"Come here, Imogen. Darling."

He pulled her onto his lap, gently running a hand up and down her back. She rested her palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. It was intimate in a way that brought her out of the moment, his chest rising and falling in time with her own. The heat radiating off of their skin against the cool air around them. She was getting lost in the sensation, causing her to jump when his forefinger reached up to trace the curve of her lips. He reached up, pulling and discarding the remaining bobby pins from her hair, causing it to cascade down her back. His countenance was full of want, of need. He pulled her forward, hungrily taking her lips into his own.

"I think...its time...for a reward." He breathed, flipping her onto the mattress.


	7. Sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you no idea that you're in deep?  
> I dreamt about you nearly every night this week  
> \--Arctic Monkeys, "Do I Wanna Know?"

Imogen woke to the shifting of the bed, turning over to catch Darren stretching as he arose, a sliver of sunlight falling against his back. The clock on the bedside table read 7:45 in bold blue digits. She reached out carefully, tracing the warm morning sun down his spine. He shuddered, turning towards her.

"Good morning, darling. Did I wake you?"

She sat up, drawing the bedsheets up against her bare chest. She smiled at him sleepily, mussing her hair.

"I should be up anyway. I'm supposed to accompany a particularly impressive CEO for an exhibition this afternoon. Its very high profile."

He raised an eyebrow, inching towards her.

"Oh is it now?" He said, smirking as he caged her beneath his large frame, "Tell me about this CEO."

"Well," She said softly, "He's the most brilliant man I know...and quite handsome too if I might add. He has a truly..." her breath hitched as he brushed his hand lazily up and down her thigh, "..commanding presence."

"You seem to be quite taken with him."

"Oh yes, absolutely infatuated." She pulled the sheets tighter against herself as he stared down at her hungrily. Seizing a fistful of the linen, he gruffly pulled up, uncovering her legs. He ran his hand slowly up her thigh and under the sheet. She pressed her legs together, trapping his hand. A growl grew from the bottom of his throat. He reached down, wrenching her legs open before grabbing her by the hips and pulling her down the mattress.

"I bet you wear tight little skirts when you walk into his office," She bit her lip, stifling a moan as he put his hand between her legs. "Getting wet just like this as you think about him taking you over the desk, don't you?"

"Yes," She replied, huskily.

He ran a finger over her slit, rubbing against her folds. She was squirming at his touch, his breath hot against her, filthily whispering into her ear. He slipped two digits inside of her, circularly rubbing her bud between his thumb. She whimpered and arched against him as he alternated between thrusting and massaging her inner walls. His mouth was at her throat, leaving bruises in its wake, shushing her cries between breaths. Her head was back against the mattress, eyes shut tight, biting her lip.

"Look at me." He commanded.

Imogen's face was flushed, her hooded eyes staring into his bright ones. He removed his fingers from her, bringing them slowly up to his mouth, languidly and obscenely sucking on them. With his knee between her legs, she tried in vain to close them to relieve the loss of pressure. _How does he do this to me?_ He appeared amused at her distress, sitting back to watch her lay wantonly.

"What is it, darling?" He asked, leisurely unwrapping her from the sheets. His hand crawled up her breastbone and throat, his thumb tracing the curve of her lips. She took him into her mouth, slowly and lasciviously sucking on his digit as he pulled it from her lips. He brushed his moistened thumb over her nipples, erect from the cool air and sudden stimulation. Her chest rose and fell unevenly.

"I need you, Darren." She begged. His eyes darkened. She always knew just what to say, and how to say it. What made him come apart. He seized her roughly by the hips, dragging her to the edge of the bed,  flipping her to her stomach. She cried out as he slapped her ass, adjusting her pelvis. He poised himself at her entrance, pausing.

"Do you remember that night, shortly after we met, when you stayed late pouring over old files in your office? Your hair was a mess, pinned up with pencils, and papers were scattered all over the place," He pushed himself in gradually as he continued, "I watched you, admiring how you could look so beautifully undone." He traced down her spine, very nearly removing himself before driving hard back into her. "I requested you up to my suite, asking for your opinion on the plans for the new set of research departments...you were so...eager." His nails dug into the tender flesh of her hips as he paced himself slowly sinking into her. "The way you leaned over my desk, tresses falling down as you lost yourself in detail. A gasp escaped that sweet mouth of yours when I leaned over your shoulder, drawing your hair across and out of your face. You were in a black pencil skirt that clung so tight against your curves, teasing me." He grunted, struggling to maintain the agonizingly slow pace. "Do you know what it did to me? Hearing you be so responsive, so obedient?" He leaned over her, putting a hand around her throat. "That was when I knew you were mine." He quickened his pace, fervently thrusting as he brought his hand up to quiet her growing cries. "That's it, darling. Cum for me."

* * *

 

Steam billowed from the shower as she stood letting the warm water wash over her as she relived the morning's encounter in her mind. She could scrub herself raw, but the traces of his fingerprints on her--the bruises on her throat and back--would remain. Deep in her heart, she wanted to ask to stay. To be with him here forever. To be his forever. She cherished mornings like this, seeing him without the pretense of work, without the weight of politics hounding him. She'd read what the papers were starting to say. They just didn't understand him. They didn't see him as she did. To them he was cold, but his touch was white hot to her, his gaze set her skin aflame. They saw him chasing a pipe dream, she saw him reinventing the future. They questioned his relationship with Hank Pym, she knew how deeply wounded he was. The sense of betrayal, of abandonment, of shame. _How could anyone know?_

 She pinned her hair up messily, pulling on a modest pale pink shift and wrapping a gauzy grey scarf around her throat to conceal the evidence of their rendezvous. He must be still out running, she thought, sipping on coffee downstairs. But this place seems eerily empty, a quiet that felt personal. She jumped as his butler's voice rang through the silence from the doorway.

"Mr. Cross has arranged your ride to the office if you're ready."

"As I'll ever be, Mark."

A sleek black Lincoln town car idled in front of the house. She tapped away on her phone as she stepped in, muttering a greeting to his driver.

"Good morning to you too, Ms. Czerny. But I'm afraid you're going to be late for work today."

A strangely familiar man sat across from her in a crisp grey suit. He appeared cool and collected, and not at all like he'd found his way inside of one of the richest man's personal vehicles on his property. He tapped the window behind him and the car jolted forward down the driveway.

"I'm sorry, who the _hell_ are you?" She asked incredulously.

"Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. I'd like to talk to you about Darren Cross."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone for taking the time to read this, especially those who've been gracious enough to bookmark &/or give kudos. I'll be revising and tightening up some of the chapters over the next few days; any comments, suggestions, or constructive criticisms are wholly welcomed :3  
> \--MA


	8. Huit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel soon i will sink into you  
> what do you think cause  
> there's still blood in your hair  
> and i've got the bruise of the year  
> \--Deftones, "Mascara"

She stared blankly back at him for a moment before clearing the lump from her throat.

"Wh-What about him?" Her attempt to come off coolly failed her, shaking as she picked absently at her fingernail.

"Please, Ms. Czerny, no need to be nervous. We're just trying to ascertain Mr. Cross' intentions. We've received inside intel that he's considering selling his attempt at the Pym Particle to terrorist organizations."

The colour drained from her face.

"Terrorist organizations?"

"Like HYDRA."

"HYDRA? No. Darren--Mr. Cross would never. Who's reporting this?"

"I'm afraid that's classified."

"Well its bullshit. He wouldn't....he would never...he's a good man."

"Do you know that?"

She stopped. ' _Good Man' is complicated. 'Good Man' isn't exactly true, but he certainly isn't some sort of villain, is he?_ She pursed her lips, looking outside the window as trees passed in a blur.

"Can you give us any information, Ms. Czerny?"

"You're asking me to spy on my...my boss?"

"I'm asking you to pass along any information relevant to preventing war."

"Its not...."

He leaned over, pulling a small white card from his inside pocket. He turned it over, placing it in her hands.

"Just take this then. If you think of anything...if you see or here anything, please don't hesitate to call."

His eyes flitted to her throat and back to her.

"And if you're in a bad situation, we can help."

She pulled the scarf up, clutching it as the car came to a soft stop at a red light. Hand on the car door, she sharply spat out, "For an intelligence agency, you don't know shit."

She quickly exited the vehicle, trying not to break out into a run as she put distance between herself and the Lincoln, glancing back at it warily every few paces. She crumpled the small card and shoved it into her pocket. _What are you doing, Darren? S.H.E.I.L.D.?_ She didn't know who to believe. The only thing she trusted was the anger and fear growing in her heart as she pulled her jacket more tightly around herself. Half a dozen bright yellow cabs pushed their way through the streets, honking and yelling. She held out her arm, hailing one down, cursing under her breath.

_Shit._

 

* * *

 

She walked into Cross Technologies almost half an hour late. Not that it mattered to anyone but herself.

Throwing her jacket on the small couch in her office, she sank into her high backed chair behind her desk, decompressing. Wrenching open the small drawer to her side, she threw the crumpled card into the mess of pens, lipstick, and charger cords; slamming it shut after. She sighed into her hands. _This can't be happening._ A knock came to the door, and Martine's voice twittered through the room.

"Hey, Im. Just a reminder, you have that meeting with Mr. Cross and the rest of the board with a prospective client in about 45 minutes....are you alright?"

She stood, running a finger over her eyebrow, looking up at her assistant standing in the doorway, head tilted in concern.

"I've been better. 45 minutes? I better head up now, he always likes to get a briefing in beforehand."

Martine stopped her before the door, pulling down the scarf, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Well, dear, you can't go looking like that. Hold on."

She ran outside to her desk, coming back with a small cloth bag. She gently padded concealer on the marks, going over them with a translucent powder. She held up a small mirror for Imogen to inspect.

"I had a guy a few months ago who was a little rough too."

"Its not..." She sighed, smiling at her assistant who only meant well. "Thank you, Martine."

 ...

She scrutinized her blurry reflection in the elevator, the polished metal doing little to quell her nerves. She felt dirty. She felt guilty. She could sense it written all over her face. Her sudden doubt. She felt nauseous knowing his fear of being infiltrated was not unfounded. She felt worse that perhaps she was now betraying him as well and wondered whether it was better or worse to relinquish to him the news of a mole in Cross Technology's upper level. _But how can I without revealing my own compromising position?_ She bit her lip as the doors parted, quietly stepping though the level.

"Ah, Ms. Czerny, just in time."

Darren Cross stood with his back to the giant windows, light streaming in from behind him. Seated amidst the various chairs and benches were the rest of the board; Hope Van Dyne sitting chiefly in the middle. In light of the morning's news, it looked more like a pack of wolves in sheeps clothing. She eyed each member individually, vaguely hearing Darren in the background assess the purpose and importance of the meeting. _Who had motive? Who had the gall?_ Quentin Mulson wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, checking his watch. _Nervous, Mr. Mulson? Is it because you're wearing a wire?_ Jeanette Kingsley shifted in her seat impatiently. _Waiting for something to impugn?_ She shook her head. _You can't be doing this now. Just wait. Wait til after the meeting._ Darren caught her eye as the others typed or scratched away at their notes. He gave a quick wink, smirking as a blush crept up her cheeks and she looked away. _He wouldn't. Not Darren. Not my Darren. He's ambitious and ruthless, but this? This would be insane. This would be crossing a line. He wouldn't go that far._

_Would he?_


	9. Neuf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd sell my soul, my self esteem  
> A dollar at a time  
> \-- A Perfect Circle, "Magdelena"

He was a mass of brilliant white teeth and iron resolve. He paced methodically around the clients, his voice crawling around them dropping seeds like "revolution", "future", "absolute", and "power". Power made his chest swell. Power made him, _him_.

But Pym. When Hank Pym arrived with all the enthusiasm of a funeral everything changed. Clouds rolled in and suddenly it was a storm between the two, exchanging careful nuanced verbal blows; a cold war weaponizing guilt and fear and regret. _I warned you, Darren. And now I wonder if perhaps I was warning the wrong person._ Resentment pulsated off of Darren in waves, even with his back to his former teacher and friend.

"A global announcement for Project Yellowjacket will be made this fall. I suggest you consider attaching your name to it before then. The future is now." He thanked those who came, stopping on his targeted exit to whisper something to the gentleman who had been lurking in the back during the display. He nodded, taking Darren's hand into a firm handshake as he mouthed an affirmative in response. Imogen studied his face, trying to remember it from the invitation list. Carson? She made to follow them as they exited together, but was stopped by a hand stopping her elbow.

"Ms. Czerny, I presume?"

Pym. She glanced from his face to Darren's back as he cleared from her line of sight. _Shit_. _Distractions._

"Yes, that's right. How may I help you, Mr. Pym?" She sighed, clearing the air of distress.

"You have to stop him."

"Me? Why does everyone--why do you think I can stop him? To what end?"

"He won't listen to me. He will if yo-"

"That's where you're wrong, Pym. The problem has always been that he listens to you. Too much." She felt her voice get high and shrill. She bit her lip, taking a breath.

"Do you truly think he's capable of being responsible for something so terrible? If you think he's such a bad man then why did you pick him? What did you see?"

His grey face fell. His shoulders dropped as he sighed, removing his glasses to clean an invisible smudge with his tie.

"I saw myself. My own ambition. My hubris. I'm not perfect. I've done things I regret, burned bridges I can't reconstruct. I don't think he's any more of a bad man than I am, but he's going to become one if he isn't stopped."

"Just talk to him."

"Don't you think I've tried?"

"No, I don't." She turned her heel, abandoning him. She thought of the crumpled card in her desk, of Darren, of the mysterious client. He's attempting to sell the Pym Particle to terrorist organizations. She shook the voice from her head. She needed to talk to Darren. She needed to know.

 

* * *

 

She counted off her convictions of his innocence as the elevator passed each floor, but as it grew closer to the apex, her convictions turned to doubts. The doors opened to the unfamiliar man from before, Darren at his side seeing him off.

"We'll keep in touch. I look forward to working with Cross Technologies." He turned towards her, nodding in a slight bow.

"Miss."

"Czerny. And you are?"

"Carson. Mitchell Carson. He represents an organization whose ambitions mirror our own."

The corners of Carson's lips turned up slightly as he pressed the button for the ground floor.

"You'll hear from us soon, Mr. Cross."

The doors were barely closed and he was on her. Pressing her against the wall, the air leaving her lungs as he ripped the scarf from her throat, his lips and teeth and tongue mapping her. Her head spun, closing her eyes as his fingers dug into her hips, his pelvis pushing licentiously into her.

"Darren..I need," She started, out of breath.

"I know." His voice was low in her ear, but she felt it in her core.

_Distractions._

He threw her over his shoulder, running a hand up the back of her exposed thigh, delivering a resolute smack against her ass as he entered his office, slamming the door behind him. Her back met the cool wood of his desk. He stared down at her with black eyes, tearing at his tie.

"Turn over."

Her dress was ripped unceremoniously down her shoulders, his silk tie tightly binding her wrists behind her back. She laid there, breath fogging the desk, skin anticipating his touch as her eyes followed the shadow before her. She twitched as a hand ran down her spine.

"Its finally happening, darling. Everything I've worked for is right here at my fingertips."

He gave her ass a determined slap, sliding his hand down between her thighs. She moaned quietly into the wood, pressing her knees together.

"I've given everything for this, and its right here.." He pulled her up against his front, his warm breath leaving her ear as he circled the desk.

"And you, " He sank into his chair, his fingers tapping his mouth as he took in the sight of her before him, wavering slightly, bound. "My perfect girl. Come here."

_Distractions._

Like the slow white hot burn of his hands on her. Like his promises and adulations dripping from his mouth. Like the need in his eyes gazing down on her as he filled her mouth. Like his hand pulling her hair as he drove himself deeper inside her. Like the world falling away as she came apart underneath him.

_Yeah. Distractions._

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is appreciated!


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